by Sharon Lee
Invited to the bridge by the captain to watch the master trader at her work, up close and personal? Jethri grinned a grin of his own, though he did remember to bow again, in light agreement. When he came up from that, she was gone, leaving him blinking at an empty hall.
He closed the door and ran for the shower, talking to himself as he soaped and rinsed.
“‘kay, kid—you’re going live crew on a live deck, ain’t that something special? Watch the master and learn your heart out. . .”
He skimped a little on the dry cycle and bounded, damp, to the closet, pulled out a blue shirt and darker blue trousers and hurriedly dressed, pausing in front of the mirror to affix Ixin’s pin to his collar and run hasty palms over his spiky, growing-out hair.
Grabbing his pocket stuff, he rushed from the room, heading for the cafeteria at just under a run, and wishing, not for the first time, that Elthoria kept ‘mite available to its crew.
HE CHOSE HIS BREAKFAST not by what he wanted to eat, but by which lines were shortest at the serving tables. Fortunately, there were two lines for tea—tea being to Liadens what coffee was to Terrans; and his choice of the shorter one put him next to Pen Rel.
The arms master glanced to him, and bowed what looked to be the bow between comrades, which, Jethri thought, had to be him reading wrong. He made sure his answering bow was the perfectly safe and unexceptional junior to senior.
Pen Rel cocked his head to a side, and while it couldn’t precisely be said that he smiled, there was a noticeable lightening of his usually stern face.
“I see that our schedule has been altered by the captain’s order, young Jethri,” he said, selecting a tea bottle from those on the table. “Never fear, we will pursue your studies as time—and the captain—allow us.” He inclined his head. “Good shift to you.”
“Good shift,” Jethri answered, snagging a bottle for himself and moving off to an empty table to gulp down his meal.
HE MADE THE BRIDGE in good time, his fractin dancing between his fingers, and found Technician Rantel ver’Borith, who he had met a couple times in the library, waiting for him at the door.
“Apprentice Trader.” She bowed, and handed him a pocket locator clip and an ear-and-mouth com. He put the button in his ear and smoothed the wire against his cheek. When she saw he was situated, Rantel put her hand against the door, and led him across the threshold, past Captain yo’Lanna, who glanced up and acknowledged their presence with a seated bow strongly reminiscent of Iza Gobelyn’s usual curt nod to outsiders on her bridge, and down-room.
It was an eerily quiet bridge, with none of the cheerful chatter that had been common ‘mong his cousins as they brought Market into approach. They went by Gaenor’s station, she intent on her screens to the exclusion of all else. In fact, the bridge crew, to a man, sat in rapt concentration over their screens, monitors, and map displays.
Norn ven’Deelin sat at a station far removed from the captain, her nearest neighbor what looked to be an automatic weather scanner. She greeted him with a smile and tapped her finger on the arm of the empty chair beside her.
He slid in, finding the seat a bit tighter than he might have liked, and a thought too close to the floor, so that he needed to fold his legs around the base.
“Apprentice, you made excellent time,” Master ven’Deelin said, very softly. “Your expertise will be required very soon. Now, if you please, we will familiarize you with the equipment. Please touch the blue switch—yes—now, press forward one click, and your console will come to observer status.”
He followed her instructions carefully, feeling a tingle in the pit of his belly when the screen lit and the button purred static in his ear.
“Good,” Master ven’Deelin said, her voice in his ear an odd, but definite, comfort.
“When you press again—which you will do, but not touch anything else—your board is now live and in tandem trade mode. That means you will be seeing what trades I see. The green boxes represent my offers. If you suggest an offer it will appear on my screen, and I will accept it or not.” She paused.
“Now, if you go forward once more—which you will do now but not touch anything else—you are in the solo trade mode. In that mode you commit us as utterly as if I had signed my name on a contract or placed hard cantra on the counter.” Another pause.
“Take a moment to study what the screen tells you, child.”
Truth told, he needed a chance to study the screen. He bent forward eagerly, one hand fiddling with the fractin, the other curled into a fist on his knee.
The screen was beyond high info—it was dense info. At the bottom left corner was a schematic of Elthoria, full cans and cargo holds limned in green; empties colored red. Bottom right was marked Funds and showed a balance of zero. The top half of the screen was divided into columns—Incoming, Outgoing, Bids Made, Bids Taken, Bids Refused. Right now, there wasn’t much action, but he thought the columns would start to fill up quick as soon as they came into Modrid’s approach space.
His fractin slipped out of his fingers. He caught it before it had fallen far, palmed it, slipped it into his pocket—and looked up to find that Norn ven’Deelin had noticed his movement. He braced himself, waiting for her to ask what silly toy he had in his pocket; then she spoke and he realized that she had misunderstood his sudden movement.
“Forgive me. Please return your board to observer status with the reverse-ward clicks. Very good. Now, on either side of your seat you will find several tabs and buttons. I suggest you take some time with them until your hands know what they do—they are adjustments for length and height, for spin and—but you must discover them and adjust what is necessary, for we may sit for some time today.”
He put his hands down, fingers discovering the advertised buttons and tabs. He quickly found that one button adjusted the inflation of his seat, and another the angle compared to the console, another the height of the seat relative to the deck, which allowed him to straighten his legs. Only the pilot’s chair had these kinds of extra adjustments on the Market, and if a lowly ‘prentice trader’s observation chair was so equipped what must the captain have available? Meditatively, he cycled the chair to the very back of its track, then slowly forward.
“. . . and when you are comfortable,” Norn ven’Deelin murmured, “you will say something to me so that we know your com is working and at proper volume . . .”
Face burning, he locked the chair where it was and touched the button in his ear.
“Yes, Master Trader.”
She smiled at him, gently. “Always the silver tongue, my child. Perhaps you will tell me what you think of the two offers at the top of the board, which came in as you were adjusting your chair.”
Startled, he glanced at his screen and saw an offer to sell two MUs of cheese . . . he blinked, then laughed. Two MUs—that was two cargo pods!
“Ma’am, I’d tell the first one thanks but no thanks,” he said, dropping into Trade. “At that price we’d need to be carting locally on a prepaid rush delivery—or we’d need to broker it on planet, and that’s a time waster.”
“Yes, thank you, we shall decline. And the second?”
That was harder, the offer being a half-can of specialty spices and herbs. Jethri frowned, mentally running through the manifests he had studied.
“Ma’am, in general I don’t believe you have Elthoria carrying foodstuff,” he said tentatively.
“Excellent,” she murmured in his ear. “You see what they wish us to do—to broker this and that. Were we at leisure, perhaps I might allow myself—but this is not such a trip. Now, attend your controls once more.”
He brought his attention to the console.
“You see the red tabs set on either side of the blue control wheel. For details of what is on offer, if needed, select the right, and again if need be—sometimes there are as many as a dozen detail levels. If these leave you uninformed, make a record—that is the left tab—and we will add it to our analysis list. Now, if you see something which
you think I should note, click the yellow button above the wheel here—and I will have a highlight informing me.”
Jethri began to nod, caught it and inclined his head. “I understand,” he said, and looked at his screen, where two more offers had appeared in the Incoming column.
“Ah, good,” the master trader said.
The run-in to orbit took several hours and for awhile he sat in observer mode, watching as she filed Elthoria’s availables. As he’d suspected, the incoming offers picked up momentum as they moved further in. Teeth indenting lower lip, he bent forward, trying to move his eyes fast enough; caught an offer of a twelfth MU of compressed textiles—highlighted it, and heard her murmur, “Yes, that looks likely. However, there is history—we have not used that source for some time. There was a bad load. Watch and see if the price falls . . .”
The bridge behind them got busy—maneuvers as they entered planetary nearspace, or so he thought, and she said quietly in his ear—
“Please go to tandem. Note that we have emptied a pod entire; check on that textile and if it is still available highlight it for me . . . also, I have accepted a tranship of a half pod; that will show up as a block on your diagram about now . . .”
The original lot of textile was gone, but he found another near enough, and a better price, highlighted it, and continued down the list, as the incoming column filled, spawned an overflow column and did its utmost to overfill it. He highlighted an offer of raw lumber; another of frozen chicken embryos, billed as genuine Roque Eyeland Reds and a marvelous low price the seller was asking for them, if true.
“We have now the odd-spots to fill in three pods,” Master ven’Deelin said. “You will finish Pod Seventeen—note your cubes and balance limits. Your credit draw is unlocked and our complete manifest is open to you. Do not purchase anything we already own without asking. Please click one forward now—yes. You are the buyer of record. If desirable items which will not fit into your space come to note, please highlight.”
In moments, he was sweating, leaning over the screen, shoulders stiff with tension. The credit account showed a ridiculous number of cantra for him to draw on. He flicked down the lists, trying for density; found hand tools at a good price, reached to place his bid—and the lot was gone, snatched away by a quick-fingered trader on another incoming ship.
Frustrated, he went back to the list, found a case of Genuine Blusharie on offer, touched the tab for more information—and the item vanished from his screen, claimed by another.
He put his hand on the buy switch and hunched forward, breath maybe a little short—and suddenly there was Uncle Paitor, frowning at him from memory and delivering a lecture on “auction fever”—the urge to buy quickly in order to buy first, or to buy first in order to beat the market—and how a trader above all needed a cool head in a hot situation.
Carefully, Jethri sat back and eased his hand off the switch. He flipped back through the items that had been on offer for awhile—and smiled. Reasonable cost, good density, real wooden products that would likely sell in both Terran and Liaden markets. Yes. He reached out and pushed the buy button.
The screen blinked at him; the offer accepted, the trade made. Jethri nodded and returned to the list, calmer for having committed some of his capital to solid stock.
The diagram at the bottom left showed Pod Seventeen ninety-two percent full. He could use something like that twelfth of textiles, or maybe some stasis wheat. . .
Concentrating, he barely noticed when Elthoria achieved orbit, though he did register Gaenor’s voice, speaking over the intercom.
It seemed that the offerings were coming in slower now; he had time to access the deep infoscreens. He highlighted several, and heard the master trader murmur once, “Excellent,” and, again, “I think this is too large a quantity to carry in, Apprentice.”
Pod Seventeen glowed green in the diagram—full. He blinked, and sat back, felt a light touch on his sleeve and looked over to Norn ven’Deelin. She smiled.
“If you buy anything more, my son, you will be buying for yourself. We have done well, you and I. Now, I suggest a meal, if you will honor me.”
Now that he thought about it, he was hungry, Jethri realized. Carefully, he shut down his console, slid the chair back on its track and looked around.
About a third of the bridge crew was gone, relieved while he sat over his console, their work done while his continued. Gaenor’s station was empty; at the far end of the bridge, the captain sat his board.
Jethri rose, cleared the chair’s settings in case someone followed him in it, and walked with Norn ven’Deelin toward the door. She reached out and put her palm against the plate—
“Master Trader.” Captain yo’Lanna had spun his chair and was looking at them, his face empty of any emotion that Jethri could read. “A moment of your time, if you will.”
Master ven’Deelin sighed, largely. “Bah. Details, always details.” She patted his arm. “Go—eat. When you are through, present yourself to Pen Rel and learn about those things he considers it prudent for you to carry portside here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He inclined his head and she hurried away.
He touched his ear, remembering the comm, and looked to the officer on deck.
“Keep it, of your kindness, Trader,” he said. “Doubtless, you will have need of it again.”
That warmed him, and he slipped the comm off and stowed it in a pocket.
From across the bridge came the master trader’s voice, sounding outright irritated. Jethri paused, frowning. He was beginning to be able to follow her quicker conversations, and this one was fraught with words sounding like, “Vouch for every transaction?” “Recertification is absurd!” and “I will speak to the Guild, and I am a master!”
None of that sounded like business for a ‘prentice, and, besides, he’d been given his orders and his course—lunch; then Pen Rel.
He strode out and away from the bridge, feeling something just this side of a headache and just that side of an earache trying to form. Despite which, he did note that he was in possession of a good deal more information about his ship and its business than he had before this shift.
It was off-schedule for lunch, but the second cook filled him a plate of goodies, which he ate by himself in the empty cafeteria, mulling over the cargo buys that had gotten away.
DAY 125
Standard Year 1118
Modrid
THE TRADING TOUR of Modrid went at lightspeed, with Jethri doing nothing more useful than stand at the master trader’s elbow while she negotiated for luxury pieces and high-sell items—gemstones, wines, porcelains, and three packs of what were billed as “playing cards” that cost twice what the rest had, total.
“So, now, that is done,” Master ven’Deelin said, turning away from the last table, and motioning him to walk with her. “What did you learn, young Jethri?”
“Well,” he said, thinking over her approach, the deft assurance with which she had negotiated—it had been like watching a play-act, or a port bully shaking down a mark. “I learned that I have a fair distance to go before anyone mistakes me for a master trader.”
“What’s this?” She threw a bright black glance into his face. “Do you aspire to silver tongue after all?”
He blinked at her. “No, ma’am—at least, not unless it’s something you think I should learn. I was merely trying to convey that I am all admiration of your style and skill.”
“Worse and worse!” She put her hand on his sleeve. “As to whether it is something you should learn . . . You should know how to flatter, and you should cultivate a reputation as one who does not flatter. Do you understand me?”
He thought he did, as it seemed to echo something of Master tel’Ondor’s philosophy of bows.
“A reputation as someone who does not flatter is a weapon. If I . . . am required to flatter someone in order to gain advantage, then they will know me to be sincere, and be disarmed.”
Her eyebrows lifted, and her fing
ers tightened, exerting brief pressure before she withdrew her hand.
“You learn quickly, my child. Perhaps it will not be so long until you wear the amethyst.” She waved her hand, perhaps by way of illustration, the big purple ring flashing its facets.
“We will now adjourn to Modrid trade hall to set you properly on the path to glory.”
Which could, Jethri thought, mean just about anything.
“I would be interested,” she said as they walked on, “in hearing your opinion of our last items of trade, if you would honor me, young Jethri.”
He thought back to the decks—sealed with a pale blue ribbon and a blot of wax. The vendor had set the price at two kais per and Master ven’Deelin had barely dickered at all, taking him down to one kais six per more as a matter of keeping her hand in, as it seemed to Jethri, than because she had thought the original price over-high.
“I could not see the seal properly from where I stood, ma’am,” he said slowly, “but I deduce that the decks may have been bought for certain collectors of your acquaintance, who set a high value on sealed decks from gaming.” He paused, considering the price again, and added. “It may be that these particular decks are a rarity—perhaps from a gaming house which no longer operates.”
“Hah.” She inclined her head slightly. “Well-reasoned, and on point. We have today purchased three decks of cards made for the Casino Deregar, which had been built in the depleted mining tunnels of an asteroid, and enjoyed much renown until it disintegrated some twenty-three Standards ago. We are very fortunate to have found three in their original condition, and at a price most commonly paid for broken decks.”
Her praise warmed him, and he nearly smiled, which would never do, out here in public. He took a second to order his face before he asked, “How are the broken decks pedigreed?”
“An excellent question!” Master ven’Deelin said as they passed a food stall. The spicy smell woke Jethri’s stomach, as they moved on, walking briskly. “Deregar cards are most distinctive. I have a broken deck aboard Elthoria. When we return, you must examine it. Ah, here we are! I ask your indulgence for a short time more, my son, and then we will provide us both with a well-deserved meal.”
